


Beg for Mercy (Twice)

by Solitary_Endeavor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bearded John, Bottom Sherlock, Canon Compliant, Edging, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, M/M, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sherlock and John are so ridiculously in love it's actually kind of disgusting, Top John, but disgusting in a good way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7035031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Endeavor/pseuds/Solitary_Endeavor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hasn’t left the flat in four days, the itch of impatience beneath his skin too great to allow him to suffer interaction with any human being who isn’t John.  This is probably a mercy that goes both ways, as he’s driving even himself mad.  Sherlock supposes there is a lesson to be learned here about having himself to blame, but of course he blames Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beg for Mercy (Twice)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nondeducible](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nondeducible/gifts).



> This story was originally intended as a CHRISTMAS gift for my dear bud Robin, who wanted "first time rough sex" and "Sherlock is a screamer." All I can say in my defense is that I may be six months late, but at least I'm delivering far more than the 221 words originally promised. Thanks again to Ashleigh Kinklo for playing beta. Robin, I hope you enjoy it! ❤

 

* * *

 

 

_“Mmm, that’s it, love, just like that, gorgeous...”_

 

_Sherlock’s answering moan is drawn out, shaky.  He arches luxuriously at the wash of heat that spreads through his pelvis like molten honey.  “John,” he slurs around an uncooperative tongue._

 

_Gentle laughter vibrates against his heaving belly, the sensation buzzing into him._

 

_He hovers there, suspended by the throb of building arousal, and instinctively fights the slow surfacing, as if from a warm bath, no, not yet, not—_

 

Consciousness.

 

Sherlock groans, disappointed.  Eyes closed against the morning glare through the window, he reaches toward the right side of the bed.  The sheets are cool to the touch, and Sherlock exhales slowly as his senses gradually trip online.  He presses his face into the pillow beside him and inhales deeply, seeking the faded scent of John’s shampoo, John’s skin.  Sixteen days, now.

 

 _Soon_ , he reminds himself.   _John will be home soon soon soon_ .  With a defeated sigh, he rolls himself fully onto John’s side of the bed.  His penis, half hard and pressed warm against his belly, gives a hopeful twitch.  Growling in frustration, Sherlock wrestles himself from his tangle of sheets and stumbles toward the loo.

 

~

 

Sherlock stands at the kitchen bench and glares down at the kettle, as if this will make it boil faster.  Hateful.

 

Hateful, that he is making tea ~~for one~~ for himself.  However, he had finally run Mrs Hudson off two days ago after his “sulking” had turned to “tantrum” (John’s words), and she’d reached her limit and fled the noise and noxious fumes of Sherlock’s “horrid experiments” (Hudders’s words).  He couldn’t even be bothered to finish them, anyway, this is how bored and irritable he has been.

 

Hateful, that due to the nature of Mycroft’s dirty work, John isn’t even allowed to know exactly when Mycroft’s lackeys’ current mission will be over and he can come home.

 

Hateful, that Sherlock had only gotten four months of John’s undivided, unemployed attention after that first kiss before Mycroft seduced John away with a job as emergency medical relief for embedded MI5 operatives on foreign assignment.

 

Worst of all was that his body has become accustomed to the intimate proximity of John’s body.  John’s smell, John’s touch, the sound of John’s steady breaths beside him every night as he falls asleep and every morning when he wakes.  This is the longest they’ve been separated since the dust finally settled after the mess of Mary Morstan (alias Annushka Gerasimova, alias Regina Adair, alias Sabrina Moran) and the baby that had been David What-His-Face’s all along.  John had stepped through the door of 221B, shoulders back, chin up, and said the words that had finally let Sherlock breathe easily for the first time since stepping off the roof of St Bart’s— _“For good, this time, I would think._ ”  John’s facial expression had been decisive, but Sherlock had seen the slight spasm of John’s left fist.  Had been powerless to do anything but step closer, to reach for that hand and gently wrap it in his, to whisper with his heart in his throat: “Yes.”

 

The kettle clicks off, startling him, and he nearly sloshes scalding water over his hand in the process of pouring it into a mug.  “Soon” isn’t good enough, he thinks as he stabs at his tea sachet using the end of a spoon.  Mycroft has been stringing John along with “soon” for four days now, and it’s unbearable.  Sherlock hasn’t left the flat in those four days, the itch of impatience beneath his skin too great to allow him to suffer interaction with any human being who isn’t John.  This is probably a mercy that goes both ways, as he’s driving even himself mad.  Sherlock supposes there is a lesson to be learned here about having himself to blame, but of course he blames Mycroft.

 

It’s hardly his fault he had been able to deduce John’s “top secret” location of deployment from a single text, causing Mycroft to decree that any further communication between himself and John would be monitored.  And while loyal, lovable, _perfect_ John was willing to escalate in retaliation with “phone sex,” this physical aspect of their relationship is relatively new, feels all the more fragile with John a continent away, and even Sherlock’s endless reserve of spite for his brother isn’t quite enough to overcome his self-consciousness at the thought of attempting something sexually novel where it would be eavesdropped on by one of Mycroft’s underlings, _good_ _god_.

 

~

 

Sherlock is sat in the middle of the sitting room floor amidst a sea of old case notes, attempting to decipher his own writing (attempting not to vibrate out of his skin), but it’s no good.  He finds he can’t sit still, can’t focus on the task.  Instead, he keeps obsessively refreshing his email in hope of a case he can solve without leaving the flat.  Refreshing John’s blog is no help; there have been no recent, asinine comments from ‘fans’ that need swift and brutal shutting down, either.

 

He has just set his phone down yet again, idly wondering if he should send it skidding across the floor to the other side of the room so he can’t reach it without having to get up, when it pings with the sole personalized text alert Sherlock has bothered to assign to any of his contacts.

 

Snatching up his phone, Sherlock sees the words he’s been waiting to read for the past week and a half.

 

                         Debriefed. boarding plane in 30 min. one of  
                         Mycroft’s ppl will drive me home. See you in  
                         a few hours. :*

 

Unable to stare at John’s ridiculous, archaic emoticon for a single second longer without wanting to positively die from fondness, Sherlock throws the phone across the room, though not before texting:

                      

                         Yes.

 

After a moment’s hesitation, because one good turn of embarrassing sentiment deserved another, he amends it to:

 

                         Yes. 

 

~

 

Sherlock makes a guilty, eleventh hour attempt at putting the flat to rights before John arrives.  He washes and tidies the chemical glassware which has cluttered the kitchen table, shoves his notes—still unsorted—into their box and shoves that into the corner of the sitting room.  While he’s at it, he shoves the laundry he’s been ignoring for the past two weeks into the hamper in the bedroom and turns down the bed covers.

 

He then wonders if he is being presumptuous, if he isn’t simply being overeager because he hasn’t any prior experience to John at being a partner in a physically intimate relationship.  Sherlock flips the cover back up and dithers (dithers! him!).  Flips it back down again, decisively.  Even if John isn’t interested in _that_ so soon after stepping foot onto British soil again, he will undoubtedly be jetlagged, possibly exhausted, if he’s been on-call for two weeks straight.

 

He did dress himself this morning, by chance, but he takes the opportunity to swap out the old, worn blue dressing down he’d thrown on over his shirt and trousers for the newer, burgundy one which John has more than once remarked upon as complimenting Sherlock’s colouring.

 

Sherlock is debating whether he shouldn’t add a little more product to his hair when he’s saved from himself by hearing a car pull up to the kerb through the open bedroom window.  Vehicles stop along Baker Street all the time, there’s nothing to say it’s John, but this doesn’t stop him from quickly moving out to the sitting room to check.  Peering through the net curtains he sees that yes, it’s one of his brother’s vehicles and yes, it’s his very own John who climbs out.

 

Sherlock steps away from the window swiftly.  His heart hammers in his chest, skin prickling, and he wipes his palms on his trousers.  Aware that he is at risk of making a spectacle of himself (surely it wasn’t out of the ordinary to be anxious for the return of one’s...Significant Other after a long separation—did sixteen days qualify as a long separation? it certainly felt it), Sherlock lowers himself into his chair with great restraint.  He will not cause a scene by clambering down the stairs and flinging open the door to the flat and dragging John inside.

 

Downstairs, he hears the door open, then slam shut.

 

A current of energy runs through Sherlock’s every bodily cell.  He forces himself to retain his seat.  Grips the arms tightly enough to blanch his knuckles, but John probably won’t notice that anyway.  Probably.

 

John’s familiar tread on the stairs, the squeaky fourth, the eleventh which groans abominably after the wet summer they had.  Shoes scuff at the landing just beyond the sitting room door, left ajar.  He can hear John’s breath, slightly uneven.  Surely not done in by seventeen steps he’s climbed for years, _oh_ , anticipation then.

 

Sherlock squirms in his chair, bouncing the balls of his feet against the rug.  His every muscle is strung taut, like a rubber band set to snap.  Anticipation, yes.

 

“Sherlock?” John calls as he eases the door the rest of the way open.

 

Sherlock closes his eyes to better concentrate on the sound of John’s smile in his voice.

 

“Oh!  There you are.  Hello, you.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes snap open as John’s duffle thumps to the floor.  He watches John’s gaze slowly rake over him, the heat of it like a physical touch.  John’s tongue slips out to drag across his bottom lip before he glances over his shoulder toward the stairs.

 

“Mrs Hudson not in, I take it?”

 

 _Obviously_ , Sherlock means to say, but the word sticks in his throat as he takes in the growth of John’s beard.  Someone decided to experiment with facial hair whilst he was away, to avoid Sherlock’s taunting most likely, had the results not been flattering.  They are.  It is.  Flattering.  Sherlock’s stomach clenches at the thought of that beard along the inside of his thighs.

 

John chuckles, drawing Sherlock from that avenue of thought, and drawing his attention back to the matter at hand, which is, “ _John_.”

 

The next thing he knows he has sprung from his chair and is advancing on the other man.  He’s not certain exactly what he intends to do once he gets there, but apparently John is, because he draws Sherlock in with eager hands, nearly bowls Sherlock off his feet with his enthusiasm, _god I missed you, you’re gorgeous, the whole flight back I couldn’t think about anything but finally being able to come home to you_.

 

John grasps the lapels of his dressing gown and turns him, budges him against the door to kiss him, to breathe him in, his hands warm and firm on Sherlock’s ribs.  John’s thumbs stroke back and forth over the thin skin, through his shirt, and Sherlock’s eyes fall shut.  All the mounting tension of the past sixteen days without John seems to rise to the surface of Sherlock’s skin, to the points at which John touches him, and while it doesn’t quite dissipate, it...shifts.  Mellows and deepens, but has every fiber of Sherlock straining toward John, nonetheless.  He swallows around the lump in his throat.   _I missed you, too_ , Sherlock whispers into John’s mouth between frantic kisses, like a secret, though he has been reliably informed by numerous sources that his love for John is anything but.   _I love you I love you, John, John I love you,_ until John is laughing.

 

“Yes, yeah, I love you too, I’m sorry, did I not say it yet today?” John wants to know, and Sherlock gives him a harder kiss in response.  “Mmm, maybe I should go away more often.”

 

“Don’t you dare.”

 

“No,” John agrees, “because I'm as gone on you as you seem to be on me.  I guess you’ll just have to avoid pissing off your brother so you can come with me, next time.”

 

Sentiment.  Sherlock’s self of five years ago would have been disgusted, but only because it was easier to pretend you avoided something because you hated it, rather than admit it terrified you.  John made him brave enough for love.  Or maybe love made him brave enough for John.  Either way, Sherlock is very glad he is no longer the person he was five years ago.  Even his self of four months ago was at the distinct disadvantage of having never been kissed by John Watson, having never been told that his love was in fact _not_ hopelessly unrequited, and that was a self which Sherlock would not return to for anything in the world.

 

“Don’t talk about ‘next time’ already,” Sherlock huffs, “and for god’s sake, don’t talk about my brother while you’re trying to get a leg over.”

 

“Oh, is that what I’m doing?  I must not be doing a very good job of it, if we’re still talking.”  John slides his palms down and around to Sherlock’s arse and squeezes, tugging Sherlock in so they’re pressed belly to belly.  “How’s this?”

 

With a pleased hum in the back of his throat, Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s shoulders and kisses his face, kisses and kisses to test its new topography with his lips.  The hair is long enough to have passed the painful, prickly stage, is soft when rubbed with the grain of growth, but abrasive against the grain.  Sherlock can feel the sensitive skin around his mouth reddening already.  Unexpectedly pleasant.

 

John distracts him by angling in for a thorough kiss that involves judicious use of tongue, and it’s not long before Sherlock is panting and swallowing a whinge.  Made bold by the reminder of John’s obvious sexual attraction to him, Sherlock pushes a thigh between John’s legs.  He drags his nails down John’s back over the fabric of his shirt and vest, encouraging John to frot against him.

 

“I dreamt of this arse,” John admits, his laugh self-conscious.  His grip tightens, pulls Sherlock’s buttocks up and apart as much as he’s able through Sherlock’s trousers.  Sherlock shudders in his arms, gasps, “John—”

 

“Tight and round and, fuck, I could eat it. Missed waking up with this thing unsubtly backed up into me.”  Sherlock blushes furiously, unaware he’s been so obvious, but John just laughs again, fondly.  “Missed _you_ ,” John repeats, and he holds Sherlock there against the door, pinned and...and spread, and drops hungry, biting kisses across Sherlock’s jaw, the curve of Sherlock’s neck, dips his tongue into Sherlock’s sternoclavicular notch, all the while the scratch of his beard leaving trails of heat that bloom in its wake.

 

John is being less cautious than usual with him, Sherlock notes—his behavior reminiscent of times they’ve tumbled through the door together after a wild chase, a brilliantly stimulating case.  But even those times, John was quick to temper their mutual desire, to coax it toward something less volatile, something softer.  Sherlock has never protested, how could he, when John seems determined to bring tears to Sherlock’s eyes with the depth of love and dedication behind those touches, the novel feeling of being something _cherished_ , something worthy of gentle handling.  But that doesn’t mean Sherlock hasn’t been curious.  Hasn’t wondered what John might be like, in bed, without quite so much restraint.

 

John’s hips roll against Sherlock’s thigh and he closes his teeth down on Sherlock’s nipple over the cloth of his shirt.  Sherlock jolts, unable to stifle a cry that’s more shock than anything else, and John immediately presses his lips to the spot in apology, breathing harshly.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” John rasps, “I didn’t...”

 

It’s Sherlock’s turn to surprise John, he suspects, as he wraps a strong hand around the nape of John’s neck and urges his face upward so Sherlock can kiss him fiercely.

 

“No, it wasn’t—” he tries to explain, voice half a growl as he struggles to articulate the thought past his own teeth, biting at John’s mouth, “I was surprised is all, don’t stop, god, don’t stop,” because all this unexpended energy which has been winding him up, tighter and tighter as John’s absence has progressively worn on him, something about it responds viscerally to this rougher touch.

 

He pants into John’s mouth, his breath reedy in his ears, pulse thrumming wildly.  John takes him at his word, and shoves Sherlock into the door using the weight of his body.  Not expecting that, Sherlock grasps at John more tightly in compensation.  When John removes a hand from his arse to pinch roughly at Sherlock’s nipple, he narrowly avoids cracking his skull against the doorjamb as he surges into John’s touch with a strangled moan.  John continues to grind his hips languidly, the muscles of his abdomen tense and jumping beneath the insistent press of Sherlock’s growing erection.

 

“This what you wanted?” John asks into the vulnerable, beard-burnt curve of Sherlock’s throat, low and intimate.  It’s like a match to tinder, and Sherlock paws at him frantically, attempts to lever himself higher along the wall at his back, wriggles and writhes, tries to wrap his legs about John’s hips and pull himself more fully into John’s embrace, closer, closer.  John half heartedly fights him off, laughter soft and throaty and decidedly dirty.  Pleased and...sensual.

 

“Sherlock.  Sherlock, love,” he protests, “you’re too tall to—”

 

With a grumble of defeat, Sherlock drops both feet to the floor and turns away.  If John thinks this is a prelude to a “sulk,” however, he’s disabused of that notion as soon as Sherlock grips him by the belt and begins to tug him toward the bedroom.

 

The bedroom, where Sherlock had coyly turned back a corner of the duvet only fifteen minutes ago, worried he was getting ahead of himself.  Pressed close behind him, John reaches over to flip the whole thing to the foot of the bed, well out of the way, before his arms wrap around Sherlock and move to the placket of his trousers.  John presses his palm to the eager swell of Sherlock’s crotch and rubs, feeling out the straining shape of him beneath the fabric with his fingers, bollocks to shaft to sensitive head.

 

“Everything’s...right where you left it,” Sherlock jokes weakly, his hands dropping to curl around John’s forearms and hold him in place.  

 

Without pausing what he's doing, John peers around Sherlock's shoulder at his face, eyebrows raised.  "Er, been practicing that one since I left, have you?" John asks, clearly bemused.

 

Sherlock's cheeks burn.  "Won't be trying that again, I can assure you..." he mutters.

 

"Oh, don't say that."  John drags his thumb along the straining line of Sherlock's cock, up and down and up again, until Sherlock thinks he'll go mad.  "You may need to work on your pillow talk, but that was definitely an endearing attempt."

 

“John,” he breathes, arching in John’s hold, grinding himself against the sizable bulge pressed to the back of his thigh.  “John, _please_ ,” he snarls, unable to help himself, but John shushes him, undoes his button and zip and reaches inside Sherlock’s pants and _god_.  John’s hand wraps around him and squeezes, thumb and forefinger teasing at the partially retracted foreskin and Sherlock whimpers, certain he’s about to come already, shaking in John’s arms.  John curses quietly, voice muffled by Sherlock’s shoulder blade.

 

“You’re so close and I’ve barely touched you.”  John’s other hand slides up beneath Sherlock’s shirt, seeks out his nipple and thumbs it in the same manner as he does the head of Sherlock’s cock.  Sherlock inhales sharply through his nose, bites his lip and shifts his hips until John’s prick is where he wants it, if a little too low to be entirely satisfying, and rides the hard ridge of it.

 

“Do you want to come like this?” John murmurs, stretching up to press a wet, lingering kiss to the nape of Sherlock’s neck.  The scrape of his beard sends a violent shudder down Sherlock’s spine to settle deep in his pelvis.  “Is that what you want?  Or do you need something else, hmm?  Bit of a firm hand today?” he asks knowingly.

 

Sherlock begins to grunt and huff, and he nods his head frantically, dizzy at the prospect of it.  “Not yet, not yet,” he pleads, he needs more, more.  Sherlock’s body tenses, pulses once, as his cock releases a sluggish trickle of precome and this is it, he’s going to come, he’s coming, he’s—

 

John’s hand clamps down around the base of his prick, holding Sherlock’s orgasm at bay, until the moment of imminent crisis has passed, leaving Sherlock wrecked and winded, but still stiff.

 

“Fuck,” John swears, voice shaky, and pulls his hands back quickly, as soon as Sherlock is no longer in danger of going off like a rocket.

 

“Sorry.  That just sort of...happened,” Sherlock admits, hoarsely.

 

“Jesus.  That was...”  John steps around him, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and the look in his eyes matches how Sherlock feels.  Desperate and wild and greedy, yes.  “Get your kit off and get on the bed,” John orders.  “Now.”

 

Sherlock scrabbles to comply as quickly as possible, shucking trousers and sweat-damp pants in one go and starting on the buttons of his shirt with clumsy fingers.  John undresses as well, a distraction, until he’s down to his skin and Sherlock is standing there staring like an idiot with his shirt open along the front and dressing gown on, but John doesn’t seem to care, simply bears Sherlock down onto the mattress and cradles Sherlock’s face in his hands as he kisses Sherlock like a man starving.

 

Sherlock opens to him readily with a groan, but that doesn’t mean he won’t goad John further, that he won’t meet John’s tongue with his and give as good as he gets.  Curling his arms beneath John’s to hook his hands over John’s shoulders and tug him down, no space separating them, he hooks his feet over John’s calves and locks him in place between his thighs.  Sherlock refrains from rutting against John’s belly, but only just, and only because he’s still too close to chance it.

 

John kisses him senseless, kisses him wild, until Sherlock is grasping John’s arse in both hands, rocking them together in a halting rhythm that’s not quite enough.

 

“How do you want to come, sweetheart?” John asks, mouth smearing over his cheekbone.  “Anything you want, anything at all.”

 

Sherlock lowers his eyes from the ceiling, dazed and definitely not operating at full capacity.  He notes that his chest is bright red from the friction of John’s beard, and he can’t see higher than that, but his neck prickles with heat, so there’s a good chance it looks the same.  Sherlock focuses on John’s gaze with difficulty, but it’s worth it for the look on John’s face, and how can Sherlock possibly be expected to decide?  He wants John’s hands, John’s fingers, John’s mouth and tongue, all of it, everywhere.  Wants every bit of John in his mouth, under his fingertips, in his...well.  Penetrative sex certainly hasn’t been their most frequent method of love making during the four months they’ve been together, not by a long shot, but after sixteen days apart, he wants John to exert that claim over him, wants it with a desperation that’s almost humiliating, for someone who has spent most of his life disparaging the whims of his ‘transport.’  He feels like it’s the one thing that will subdue this craving that crawls beneath his skin.  He _needs_ John.

 

However, equally desperate, some perverse part of him wants John to work for it.  As punishment for leaving him alone for so long, maybe, and for letting Sherlock get himself so twisted up in his absence, never mind that he himself was the reason they had their privilege of private communication revoked.

 

Sherlock reaches for John’s face, scratches his nails through the scruff there before he slides two fingers into John’s mouth.  John sucks them down eagerly with a soft moan.  Sherlock is well aware of John’s obsession with his hands; they’ve spent more than one night in this very bed, John positioned between Sherlock’s splayed legs, watching avidly as Sherlock fingers himself slowly towards orgasm, until his wrist is aching and neither of them can stand it a moment longer.

 

“Your mouth,” Sherlock whispers, transfixed by the flick of John’s tongue at the webbing between his fingers.  John pulls away with a smirk.

 

“On your cock?”

 

“Hmm.”  Sherlock’s eyes dart to John’s mouth as he licks his lips.  “Lower.”

 

“Your bollocks?” John asks cheekily, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes crinkling.

 

“Lower,” Sherlock repeats, dropping his voice an octave, meaningfully.

 

“Onto your belly,” John orders abruptly, amusement gone, and Sherlock hastens to comply.  ‘Belly,’ not ‘knees,’ John said, which means he intends to keep at it for longer than he would expect Sherlock to be able to bear his own weight.  Sherlock’s arsehole clenches in anticipation.

 

As soon as he’s lying flat against the mattress, John has stripped him of the rest of his clothes and moved over him to kiss his shoulder.  Sherlock shivers as John drags his beardy chin across his back so he can kiss the other shoulder, then proceeds leisurely down the length of Sherlock’s spine, dropping sucking kisses in his wake.  Cervical, thoracic, lumbar, coccyx, and then John is spreading him open with his thumbs.  Sherlock squirms, then draws one knee up toward his chest to spread himself further.

 

“Keen, are we?”

 

“John,” he says plaintively, and John relents.  Places his mouth against Sherlock’s hole and kisses him there softly before pulling back just enough to drag his beard between Sherlock’s cheeks.  Sherlock sucks in a shallow breath, _good god_ , that was...something else.  He clenches his jaw to trap the whinge that threatens to emerge.  “John.”

 

John returns to his hole with an open-mouthed, sucking kiss that has Sherlock bucking.  John follows this up with a coaxing flicker of his tongue along the edges of the twitching muscle, alternated with longer swipes of his tongue, then the flat of his tongue, warm and slick.  Another kiss, flick of tongue, suction, harder suction, the stab of tongue tip inside, briefly—the muscles of Sherlock’s pelvic floor jump—then the scrape of beard over Sherlock’s perineum, followed by the careful pressure of teeth, and a wild noise punches itself from within Sherlock’s chest.

 

He tries to press into the sensation, scrabbles at the headboard, presses his palms flat to brace himself, but John has purposely positioned him for minimum leverage.  He easily bears Sherlock down, a strong hand on either hip and follows with his mouth, hot and wet and wicked, picking up where he left off.  Kiss, suck, scrape of beard, kiss, kiss, drag of tongue, suction, gentle pressure of teeth, harder suction and stab of tongue and beard and beard and kiss and beard and Sherlock is gasping and moaning shamelessly, loud enough to wake the dead.

 

John’s tongue inside his arse progressively becomes more forceful, lingers longer, and each time it fucks into him Sherlock’s cock leaks against his belly, the ache in his bollocks becoming more profound, more prolonged before it recedes, until suddenly it doesn’t, and he really is going to come this time, “John,” he slurs into the crook of his elbow, uncertain whether he intends to tell him _stop, stop_ or _don’t you dare stop!_

 

But John knows, John always knows somehow, he’s very good at this.  He pulls back to let Sherlock catch his breath, and John’s eyes are on him, Sherlock can feel it like a physical caress.

 

“Not half done with you,” John promises.  He leans away briefly to reach for the nightstand on his side of the bed.

 

“Wait.”  Sherlock fumbles beneath John’s pillow for a bit until his fingers close around the bottle there, and he pulls it free to push it in John’s direction without making eye contact.  He feels the flush crawl up his neck and hopes it passes for sexual excitement, given the circumstances.

 

John chuckles dirtily and repositions himself between Sherlock’s legs.  “Naughty man.  Were you thinking of me?”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock huffs, shifting his hips impatiently.  “You kept texting me about what you wanted do to me, and even if I couldn’t respond without it ending up in an MI5 transcript on my brother’s desk, I wasn’t...unaffected.”

 

“’Not unaffected?’  That’s high praise.”

 

“ _John_.”

 

There is a kiss to the small of Sherlock’s back, and John reaches between his legs to grasp his cock with firm, slick pressure.  Sherlock groans, hips kicking forward into the touch.  John’s other hand settles on his buttock to spread him open again.  Slick with lube, John’s thumb massages his hole, playing over the muscle and alternated with flicks of tongue, and just when Sherlock thinks he really will go mad, that thumb slips into him to the second knuckle.  Sherlock makes a helpless noise and rolls his hips, thrusting once into the tight, wet channel of John’s fist before he’s able to stop himself and he holds there, sweating and trembling, waiting to see what John will do next.

 

“Go on,” John murmurs, crooks his thumb and stretches Sherlock wide enough to make room for his tongue.  “Show me how ‘affected’ you are.”

 

John’s tongue stabs deep, and something dangerously close to a sob erupts from Sherlock’s chest. _Fucking chrrrist._  Sherlock fists his hands in the sheets and rocks into John’s mouth.  Sucking at Sherlock’s hole around his thumb, John dips that thumb in further, farther than his tongue can reach, but still not deeply enough.  The scrape of beard is too much for the oversensitised skin at the juncture of his thighs, but that small discomfort only sharpens his arousal  As John twists his thumb along Sherlock’s interior walls, he gives Sherlock’s bum a sharp nudge with the heel of that same hand, sending his straining prick though John’s fist.

 

Sherlock is quick to pick up the rhythm, himself, after that, and he does so with steadily increasing enthusiasm, until he’s fairly riding John’s face.  A low, keening noise is drawn from him that he suspects may also be raising in pitch, the longer John works his arse.

 

“More,” he gasps.  “Make me...I need...inside.  Your cock.”  His toes curl against the bedsheets.  “Give it to me.  I need it.”

 

John pulls himself from Sherlock’s arse with what seems like reluctance, leaving a parting bite on the meatiest part of Sherlock’s left buttock.  “Yeah?” he asks hoarsely, but it’s a rhetorical question, because already he’s reaching for the lube.

 

“Hard,” Sherlock demands, feeling magnificently wanton and uninhibited.  He would be willing to let John have him right this second, convinced his body would yield to John’s like butter to a hot knife.  John is far too conscientious for that, of course, and probably all for the good, anyway; Sherlock knows he has a poorly developed sense of self-preservation, and when it comes to John particularly, he has difficulty recognizing his limits.

 

“Bossy.”  John shifts to hold Sherlock down with a hand on his nape.  His face moves into Sherlock’s view, half obscured as it is by his pillow.  “This okay?” John asks, his eyes dark and impossibly soft despite the tension in his frame.  Still restraining himself, Sherlock sees.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock groans, writhing under John’s weight, testing the strength of his hold, and finding it firm.  “Yes, yes, yes.”  His eyelids flutter shut as John leans in to kiss his eyebrow, his temple, his cheekbone.  Sherlock gropes blindly for John’s face, presses his fingertips into the soft scruff to hold him there as teeth worry gently at the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw.  Too soon John is moving away again, pulling Sherlock’s hand from his face and, _oh_ , directing it down to his own backside.  John’s knees snug up against the inside of Sherlock’s thighs, urging them wider.

 

“Hold yourself open for me.  Give me room to get you nice and loose.”

 

Sherlock does as he’s told.  There’s a squelch from the bottle of lubricant, and then John is sinking two slippery fingers into him, unerringly seeking out Sherlock’s prostate, swollen and throbbing.  John’s fingers have barely nudged that spot when Sherlock bucks violently with a startled cry.  

 

“Don’t, I’ll come, I’m gonna come, not yet!”

 

John immediately eases his fingers out a bit.  “Fuck, Sherlock,” he growls, sounding nothing like himself.  “At the rate you’re going, you’re going to come the second I get my cock in you.”

 

“Probably.”  Sherlock laughs weakly, delirious with arousal.  “Serve you right.  You’ll have to, _hngh_ , f-fuck me right through it and into the next one.”

 

“You’ll be too sensitive,” John protests, but from the way he drags his erection along Sherlock’s thigh, Sherlock can tell the thought arouses him, even if it might not be feasible.  Sherlock wouldn’t know.  Orgasm with John tends to leave him feeling so sluggish and satisfied, replete, that all experimental curiosity has fallen away in favor of more important matters by that point.  But this doesn’t change the fact that:

 

“I want it.”

 

With a groan, John withdraws his fingers completely, then pushes back in with three.  Scissors and twists them, working Sherlock’s rim loose and compliant.  “Christ, look at you.  You’re so worked up, you’re shaking.  Do you think you’re ready for me?”

 

“Yes.  Give it to me now, I’m ready, I’m ready, John, please—”

 

“All right,” John soothes him, “all right, I’ve got you.”

 

John’s palms slide along his back, petting and gentling him, but Sherlock doesn’t want to be gentled, he wants to be _fucked_ , but John knows already, John always knows.  His hands clamp down on Sherlock’s hips and lift him, help hold Sherlock steady so he can get his knees under himself.  Sherlock gets into position on unsteady limbs.

 

“There you go, perfect, you’re perfect,” John praises him, and then he’s sliding into Sherlock’s arse with one hot, long thrust.  Sherlock bears down, whimpering, shit, oh, fuck, and he doesn’t come, but it’s a near thing, and only because at the last moment John reaches between them to carefully (cruelly) tug Sherlock’s scrotum from where it has drawn up tight to his body in preparation for orgasm.

 

“Dirty trick,” Sherlock rasps into the pillow.

 

“Yeah,” John agrees, stroking Sherlock’s flanks.  He does this until some of the tension leeches from Sherlock’s body, until Sherlock’s spine loosens and he releases his death grip on the sheets.  “Ready?”

 

Sherlock struggles to lever himself up from the mattress and curls both hands over the top of the headboard to brace himself.  “Hard,” he reminds John, attempting to recapture his earlier bluster.

 

John bends over him to kiss the center of his back.  “Your choice,” he groans, before withdrawing until only the head of his prick remains.  “But not before I warm you up a bit.”  He gives a few quick, teasing thrusts that stimulate the rim of Sherlock’s hole but don’t penetrate much deeper.  “Ohh, that’s lovely...”

 

“For god’s sake,” Sherlock whinges, “if I were any more, _hah ahh_ , warmed up I— _nggh!_ —I’d combust.”  John’s hands anchor his hips in place, preventing him from just bouncing on John’s cock as he pleases, leaving him at John’s mercy.  “John!” he cries, real tears of frustration prickling at his eyes.

 

“Oh, Sherlock, love, I’m sorry.  Come here...”  John plunges into him with a bit more force, all the way, and stays there, and it’s good.  Gets better when John slides one hand up his sweaty back to clamp his hand over Sherlock’s shoulder and the other returns to the nape of his neck, encouraging him to drop his head with gentle pressure at the base of Sherlock’s skull.  “All right then, put your back into it for me, there you go,” he coaxes as Sherlock locks his elbows, drops his spine and sticks his arse out.

 

“You put _your_ back into it,” Sherlock says, and that bit of cheek earns him a rougher thrust, _finally_ , almost sending him off his balance.  John gives him a chance to adjust his stance, to widen his knees while John adjusts his grip, and the following pump of John’s hips is powerful enough to knock a bitten-off shout from Sherlock.  Sherlock drops his chin to his chest and concentrates on breathing, on pushing into John’s thrusts, harder, harder, until John increases the pressure of his hand on Sherlock’s neck and guides him down until his cheek is pressed against the sheets.   The hand on Sherlock’s shoulder leverages John’s next thrust, and the guttural sound that slips past Sherlock’s teeth is inhuman.

 

“Okay?” John grunts, and barely has a chance to get the word out before Sherlock is babbling over him.

 

“Yes, guh-good, don’t stop, _nnnuh..._ John!”

 

John takes pity on him and finally (finally, finally, finally) leans into him, holds Sherlock down with the weight of his body to stuff Sherlock’s arse properly.  It’s not long before John is pounding into him with abandon, and Sherlock is sobbing, open-mouthed, into the mattress.

 

Though John has him pinned, Sherlock doesn’t let it stop him from trying to take more—he’s greedy for it, John’s touch, John’s skin, John’s fat cock inside him.  Sherlock has flirted at the edge of orgasm too many times already, and he’s not certain how much longer he can last considering the way every pump of John’s hips winds him tighter, the slap of John’s bollocks against the beard-pinkened skin of his arse, the catch and pull of John’s fingers in the sweat-damp hairs at his nape.

 

Electricity shivers beneath Sherlock’s skin.  Each brutal thrust causes a blossoming of heat deep at the base of his spine that ebbs and flows and ebbs, until there’s no more ebbing, but a steady build of sensation toward the inevitable.  His internal muscles yield to the relentless invasion of John’s cock and it’s so good he can’t stand it, tries to convey this to John, but when he opens his mouth what comes out is a wail that feels as if it shreds his throat.

 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” John swears behind him, the shock in his voice unmistakable.  Something about Sherlock’s complete loss of self-control must spur on John’s, because the hand at the back of Sherlock’s neck slips into his hair and fists, tugging Sherlock’s head back, forcing him to elongate his neck.  Sherlock sobs aloud at that, too, having not expected the mind-numbing pleasure of a bit of hair pulling, the helpless shudder that zips down his vertebrae to settle in the region of his prostate, _oh_ , _oh, that’s..._ but John continues to tug, dragging him up onto his knees.  There’s no hope of Sherlock supporting his own weight at this juncture, and he slumps in John’s arms, head lolling against John’s good shoulder.   John, wonderful John knows Sherlock’s body better than he knows it himself, and realizes the significance of what has happened.  The grip in Sherlock’s curls doesn’t loosen, but is used to maneuver him into hot, hungry kiss.

 

Sherlock whimpers as the position shifts John inside him.  John flexes his hips up into him once, twice, three times more with a fierce grunt and reaches for Sherlock’s prick, his grip slick with sweat and residual lube.  A single tug is all it takes to tumble Sherlock headlong into the most intense orgasm he can ever remember having, whilst yelling bloody murder.  His body clamps down around John for all it’s worth, his spine arches, and John’s hand finally releases his hair to slip around his shoulders and hold him upright.  John’s hand works him rapidly, focusing on the tip of his cock and his foreskin, prolonging his orgasm, until John is coming, too, hips jerking against Sherlock’s arse as he releases into him with a wordless cry of relief.

 

Sherlock shudders through the aftershocks John’s orgasm produce in him, until he’s feeling strung out and oversensitive.  Endorphin-drunk and clumsy, he reaches up to ease John’s hand from his softening member and slots John’s fingers between his, gripping hard as he struggles to catch his breath.  He is exhausted beyond reason, however, and soon goes limp in John’s arms.

 

John giggles weakly, hisses as his cock slips free, then lowers them both to the mattress.  Well, more of a controlled fall, really, but they end up on their sides, having avoided sandwiching the come on Sherlock’s stomach between him and the sheets, thankfully.  John spoons up tightly to him from behind.

 

“Who’dve thought Sherlock Holmes is a screamer,” John pants, his face pressed to Sherlock’s shoulder.  Sherlock can _feel_ the smugness in his smirk.

 

“Shut up,” Sherlock grumbles, or attempts to, but it comes out more like “shhhub,” and this sets John giggling again.  Sherlock can’t bother to be properly embarrassed, not with his post-coital lassitude threatening to put him into a pleasure coma.  He could sleep for a _week_ .  John cards his fingers through Sherlock’s sweaty curls, and Sherlock hums in the back of his throat.   _Two weeks_ , he amends.

 

They lie there for several minutes, John’s fingers in Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock lazily petting John’s leg where it’s flung over his own.

 

“We should...clean up,” Sherlock says eventually, when he can talk, though his voice is still croaky.  He makes no move to sit up, but then neither does John; John just digs his fingertips in along Sherlock’s scalp.  Groaning blissfully, Sherlock tightens his hand around John’s thigh.

 

“Someone likes a bit of hair tugging, too.  Didn’t pull too hard, did I?” John asks, lips brushing the shell of Sherlock’s ear.

 

“God no.”  Sherlock huffs a sheepish laugh.  “I think I almost came from that, alone.”

 

“Hmm, I’ll definitely be remembering that trick.  Maybe I’ll try it the next time you’re being insufferably stroppy.”

 

Summoning up all his remaining energy, Sherlock wriggles in John’s embrace until he’s turned over and they’re face to face.  “You’re awful,” he tells John, leaning in to kiss his scratchy chin, the side of his nose, the delightful furrow between his brows.  “I’m going to be beard-burned for days.”

 

“You’re grinning, though,” John points out.

 

“Of course I am!  You’re back here with me, where you belong, and I’m _incandescently_ happy.”

 

John eyes him critically, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  The look on John’s face is so fond it makes Sherlock’s heart clench.  It would be impossible for Sherlock _not_ to take that beloved face in his hands and pull him in for an earnest, languid kiss.

 

“Welcome home, John.”


End file.
